


Baking Is Not a Science

by septemberleaves



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Gift, One Shot, Post-Canon, RWRB Romance Week, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29408034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septemberleaves/pseuds/septemberleaves
Summary: Nora wants to surprise June with a cake for her birthday but learns that she can't bake.
Relationships: June Claremont-Diaz/Nora Holleran
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24
Collections: RWRB Romance Week





	Baking Is Not a Science

**Author's Note:**

> Day 7 of RWRB Romance Week: Gift

Nora knows Python as well as her native tongue. She can calculate maximum likelihood estimators in her sleep. She’s completing a master’s degree in data science from Columbia fucking University. All this data points to her being a certifiable goddamn genius. But she can’t bake.

Nora groans as she sets the pan containing a very burnt cake onto the stove. Today was June’s birthday, so she’d wanted to do something special for her. She knew June appreciated the wacky gifts she’d given her in the past (such as the embroidered flowery expletive that now hangs in their bathroom, the pink guitar pick that reads “Pluck me harder,” and the custom voodoo doll of Woody Allen that they took turns sticking with needles before burning), but Nora had wanted to be serious this time (though she still had a sequin pillow of Ron Swanson’s face for a gift too). She realizes she isn’t the best at expressing her emotions, usually jumping to quips or sarcasm rather than being vulnerable. And when she does communicate her feelings, her words feel too direct and crude. 

So instead of using words, Nora had decided to show her love by baking a cake, tres leches to be exact. June had told fond stories of how her father would make that cake every year on her and her brother’s birthdays growing up. She and Oscar would wake up early to make sure the cake was ready by the time lunch came around, so that they’d be able to have dessert twice in one day. She’d said her dad had joked that the cake took an hour longer than normal to soak because of all the times June would open the fridge to peek at it. Since the divorce, the tradition had faded out. June, the perennial peacemaker, had never brought it up with Ellen.

Nora had hoped to bring it back. She’d emailed Oscar for the recipe, bought the ingredients, and woke up this morning determined to make the perfect tres leches to greet June with when she arrived home from errands and meetings. Six hours later, she just hopes she won’t burn the apartment down. 

“You stupid, weak-ass piece of shit,” she huffs, kicking the oven door shut. Fuck, that hurt. She throws off her girlfriend’s floral oven mitts and surveys the absolute mess before her.

The kitchen is destroyed. The counters are covered in bowls of numerous sizes, most still containing some hung-on remains. (Nora has learned she is not a person who cleans as they bake, if you can classify what she’s done as baking.) Random mixing spoons, forgotten metal lids from the cans of various milk products, and open bottles of vanilla and rum also dot the countertops. Lastly, a light dusting of flour coats everything as a finishing touch. (Note, use scissors when trying to open a bag of flour.)

All she has to show for the mess is three terrible tres leches. Her first attempt had rapidly turned into a failure once she’d taken it out of the oven. It had crumbled, physically collapsing onto itself like those floppy balloon things outside of car dealerships. That had been early in the morning when she still believed there was good in the world, so she had decided to try again. 

Her second cake had survived baking. It was a bit flatter than the first had been initially, but at least it seemed to be holding its shape. Once it had cooled, she’d begun the next step of the recipe by poking rows of holes in the cake. That’s when she noticed the problem. The cake was a fucking rock. She’d broken a toothpick trying to stab through the dense, dry dessert. After a prayer to Athena, she’d poured the mixture of milk and cream over the cake, covered it in plastic wrap, and left it in the fridge for a few hours, hoping it would absorb the liquid and somehow turn into the paragon of sponginess. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. The milk had thickly pooled on top like white, sticky—Yeah, she’s not going to say what it reminded her of. 

After that, she’d run out of ingredients and had been forced to rush to the grocery store. She hadn’t bothered changing out of the black apron that reads “My Wife Loves My Meat” (a gift to June from last year) and only had to stare down one guy’s weird glance. God bless New York City.

Starting on her third try, she’d known failure was no longer an option. If she wanted the cake to be cooled, milk properly soaked up (which takes four fucking hours too long), frosted, and topped with strawberries by the time nightcaps came around, she needed to get it in the oven as soon as humanly possible. She went through the recipe she’d memorized in her head, rushing but being sure to precisely measure each ingredient. Due to her attention to detail earlier, however she’d realized she was quickly running out of time. In order to get her schedule back on track, she’d shortened the baking time. If it took thirty minutes to bake at three hundred twenty-five degrees, by her calculations she could save ten minutes by cranking the oven up to four fifty. Apparently, that had been a mistake.

Nora stares at the blackened cake resting on the stove, wondering how the hell she fucked up so badly. She is a goddamn scientist and about to have the degree to prove it. She’s followed countless procedures for difficult coding labs, but she can’t read a dumb recipe.“That Magic School Bus episode is bullshit.” Baking is not a science. And from her numerous experiments today, Nora can safely theorize that she can’t do whatever the hell it actually is.

She rests her hands on top of her head, elbows out, and weighs her options. June doesn’t have to know about this Nailed It! level of disaster. Thankfully, The destruction wouldn’t be visible from outside. The kitchen has a wall separating it from the rest of the apartment with only a small archway that reveals a little breakfast nook. They were already planning on picking up food for dinner, and Nora could make sure to volunteer to set the table and grab anything else needed, ensuring there would be no reason for June to enter the kitchen. She’d have to sneak out of bed once June is asleep to clean up though. Maybe she can pay a Secret Service agent to help. She thinks her odds are pretty even for one of them saying yes. Chances increase to seventy-two percent if Cash is on duty; she’ll have to look at the schedule. 

Nora grabs her flour-packed phone to check, and a thought strikes her. Perhaps she can have her cake and eat it too. It’s the twenty-first century. If she wants an authentic tres leches, she can have one delivered within the hour. 

She’s scrolling through the reviews of a nearby immigrant-owned restaurant when she hears the front door open and close. Fuck. It’s not even half past five, but she hears the rattle of keys hitting the bowl on the entry table, signalling June’s arrival. 

“Catalina June! Love of my life, my pure desert rose! You’re home early,” Nora calls, scrambling to the sink to wash the flour from the phone off her hands. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yeah, my meeting with my editor was rescheduled, so I thought I would surprise you. I grabbed some food from the Mediterranean place down the street.” June’s voice is steadily getting closer.

“Babe, it’s your birthday! Shouldn’t I be the one to surprise you?” Nora jokes as she quickly dries her hands. She’s going to get road rash from a damn kitchen towel.

“I’m sure you still have something in mind.” She had no idea. “Are you in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, I was just, um,” Shit. “Grabbing a drink.” 

“Do you want to eat now? It’s still kind of early, so I’ll understand if you’re not hungry yet. I can just put it in the fridge.” She can hear June right around the corner.

“No!” Nora practically yells, rushing to intercept her at the archway. June stands before her only a few feet from the entrance. “I mean, I’ll grab it for you,” She drawls, assuming the casual position of leaning an arm against the wall with her hip stuck out. (This also helps block June’s vision.)

“If you insist.” June gives her a suspicious look but hands over the bag. Nora may seize it a bit too eagerly. 

June’s still standing where she was before when Nora comes back. “You know what, should we break out that chardonnay we’ve been saving?” June asks.

“Sure, babe.”

“I’ll go grab it. It’s just in the kitchen.” She goes to step past her. 

Nora panics and does the first thing she can think of to distract June. She grabs her waist, spins them around so that her back now faced her intended destination, and starts swaying. 

“Twenty-six miles across the sea, Santa Catalina is a-waitin’ for me. Santa Catalina, the island of romance.” Nora is more talking than singing, but she gets her point across. 

June wraps her arms around her neck, bringing her closer, and mumbles, “Not this again.”

They’d been surveying an old record shop for new additions when Nora had first heard this song. She’d marched right up to the guy standing by the record player who’d been debating buying it and told him she’d give him double to hand it over. With the fear of God in his eyes, he’d agreed. (She’d ended up purchasing it at three times its value, but it was completely worth it.)

The song’s an oldie from 1957 by some white boy quartet that had been popular back then. Full of beach vibes, laidback guitar, and swung lyrics of adoration, it’s dedicated to the California island that is June's namesake. Since they’d gotten it, Nora would randomly play it or sing it to tease her. June acts like she hates it, but Nora knows it’s all an act. 

June’s pretend disgruntled face only lasts a moment before turning into a tender smile as they begin to dance. Curled into one another, they sway with only her pitchy voice for music and the soft thumping of June’s barefoot feet and Nora’s sock-clad ones on the hardwood floor for a beat. 

Nora skips to the last verse because it’s her favorite. “A tropical heaven out in the ocean, covered with trees and girls.” She wags her eyebrows at the last word and runs a finger below June’s belly button, eliciting a giggle. 

“If I have to swim, I’ll do it forever till I’m gazin’ on those island pearls.” She sobers on the last line. Their faces are now only an inch apart, dancing all but forgotten, as June’s rich brown eyes look into hers. 

Nora continues but a little less playful now. “Twenty-six miles across the sea, Santa Catalina is a-waitin’ for me.” Her voice is low as she almost whispers, “Santa Catalina, my island of romance.” And June’s lips meet hers. 

The kiss is sweet and purposeful, the epitome of June. She can taste the many strips of cinnamon gum June had chewed earlier in the day while pouring over her computer. Nora tugs her closer by her waist until their bodies are flush and their curves meld into one. It’s a beautiful game of symmetry, Nora roaming her hands down her hips as June’s fingers travel upward to tangle into her hair. 

After an eternity that still feels too short, they pause to catch their breaths. Their foreheads lean against each other’s, their lips still brushing.

“So when do you want your birthday sex?” Nora gets a slap on the ass for that, but she can feel June smile.

“So romantic.” 

“You know it, babe.” And Nora’s rewarded with another taste of cinnamon. More like multiple tastes. 

“Hey, hon?” June asks afterwards against her lips.

“Hmm?” she replies absently, her thumbs rubbing circles into June’s hips.

“Why are you wearing an apron?” 

Fucking shit. She’d forgotten she was wearing the damn thing. Nora’s fingers still, and she backs away a bit to look into her searching eyes. “I’m trying a new aesthetic. I’m going for, like, opressed bisexual ‘50s housewife who gets forgotten at the supermarket and then leaves her emotionally absent, good-for-nothing husband to move in with her high school crush slash lesbian next-door neighbor Betty.” 

June raises an eyebrow. “And I’m guessing being covered in flour is just dedication to the look?” 

Nora swears and looks down. The black apron is indeed coated with white dust, but not as much as she’d anticipated. That’s when she looks at June and finds the missing half of flour. The front of June’s formerly pink sheath dress is now caked white. She hopes flour doesn’t stain.

“It adds to the realism,” she decides to brag. 

“Sure,” June says, her gaze knowing. “I’m guessing this is related to why you won’t let me into the kitchen.” 

Nora realizes there’s less than a one percent chance of keeping her secret from June, so she relents. “Fine. Be my guest,” she gestures forward, ushering June into an early death from fright. “Just remember, I tried to stop you!”

June enters the eighth circle of hell with Nora following on her heels. She only lets out one laugh of disbelief before going quiet, and Nora can tell that her mind’s trying to assess what in God’s name has happened here. She eyes the assortment of dirty bowls decorating the counters, takes a peek at the scorched cake on the stove, and lastly, picks up an empty can of Media Crema. She fiddles with it a little bit, turning it around and around in her hands. After a minute, she pivots back to face Nora, but her eyes remain down on the grasped can.

“Nora?”

“Yes.”

“You tried to make tres leches.” It’s not a question, but Nora answers anyway.

“Yes.”

June lets out a shaky sigh, turning the can once more. She then sets it ever so delicately on the only free inch of countertop. Slowly, she walks up to her and even more delicately cups Nora’s face in her palms. 

“This is the best gift I’ve ever been given,” she says, dark eyes shining. “Thank you.”

“But I burned it,” Nora blurts out. She doesn’t understand how June could possibly be happy with her disastrous attempt at baking. “I made three, and I fucked them all up.”

“That’s three more than anyone else.” Before Nora can reason with her, she keeps talking. “Three means you spent hours here failing, which I know you hate to do, but you still kept trying in order to make me happy.” June strokes her thumb along her cheekbone. “And I love you for that.” She seals her declaration with a chaste kiss. “But it’s my birthday, so I’m not helping clean up.” 

“You assho—” June silences Nora’s groan with her lips on hers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> The song that Nora sings is called 26 Miles (Santa Catalina) by The Four Preps. I found it while researching June's namesake and listened to it on repeat while writing this. I could not get the idea of them dancing to it out of my head, so I had to include it.


End file.
